by Karen Essex
Caesar had been staring at the map for some time. His elegant fingers swept past the kingdom of Judaea, where Pompey had just made a puppet out of the Jewish king, and reached Egypt. He paused, stroking the country with his index finger from south to north, for that, he heard, was how the Nile River flowed. Stroked it as if it were a pet, a cat, perhaps. A sacred pet. A pet he desired for himself. True, Pompey had the crazy old king in his pocket. True, Crassus had tried to annex it to Rome years before and was shot down by Cicero and the elderly statesman Catulus. But this time Caesar would make contact on his own.
Cicero. Surely he would keep his orator’s mouth shut when Caesar collected what he needed from Egypt. Surely he would not take a stand against a simple influx of money into the treasury. By the time he traced the origin of the funds, it would be too late, and Caesar and his men, bought and paid for with Egypt’s money, would be far, far away. And by the time he succeeded in Gaul—an outcome he never questioned—public sway would be so strong in his favor that it would no longer matter what Cicero said.
Cato was another story. When Caesar married Calpurnia and gave Julia to Pompey, Cato accused the men of horse-trading in daughters. An aspersion upon his child. An insult upon the House of Venus. A slight to the noble Piso family. And then to say that the senate had installed a king in the castle, simply because Caesar had gotten his way. Every time Caesar had an idea he wished to see to fruition, Cato set himself to pointing out how Caesar ignored the Constitution, weakened the Republic, and usurped the senate’s power. Sanctimonious beyond reason, he was like the ghost of one’s dead discarded morals—stalking, haunting, reminding one of the way things used to be. He was a symbol of the old ways, the old days of the Republic, the days no one wanted to return to in reality, but wanted to reminisce over and cherish.
Pompey and Crassus agreed that Cato must be gotten rid of, and they had left the details to Caesar. No one would miss his self-righteous breast-beating once he was gone.
“Publius Clodius Pulcher to see you, sir,” announced Caesar’s footman. He stepped aside quickly so as to not impede the brisk stride of Caesar’s guest.
“Busy, darling?” Clodius was a bit shorter, a bit stockier, a bit younger, and from a bit more illustrious patrician family than Caesar. He was every bit as intelligent, too, though hampered by an instability that caused him to crave attention. Not satisfied with the kind of quiet, dignified power that was a matter of birthright, Clodius desired the adoration of the rabble and had no aversion to the use of coarse methods to get it. Caesar had seen him use unnecessary violence against his enemies—violence that would cause a man not engaged in a war to flinch. He had a gang of thugs—there was no other way to describe them—who inflicted pain and humiliation upon any person who displeased Clodius. Yet Clodius had a tender side, sometimes alarmingly so. It was said that he was in love with his sister, Clodia, the city’s most beautiful inhabitant and known to be the infamous and inconstant Lesbia of Catullus’s poems. The rumor was that Clodius had had a love affair with his sister, from which he had never recovered.
“Never too busy for you, my most excellent friend.” A fortuitous arrival. Caesar noticed that he only had to have need of someone for them to appear. He wondered if this owed to his being descended from the goddess Venus on his mother’s side. He dismissed the secretaries with a wave of his long hand. “I was just thinking of our friend Cato.”
“I, too, think of Cato, though I think ill of Cato. In fact, thinking of Cato at all makes me ill.” Clodius laughed at his own joke, exposing his full mouth of unusually blunt teeth and shaking his unfashionable shaggy curls. He had little round cheeks and small, intense blue eyes, which appeared innocent until his laugh gave voice to the nasty spirit that possessed him. Caesar often pictured his former wife Pompeia and Clodius in bed. Lusty Pompeia and the madman who burst into the celebration of the goddess dressed as a woman in order to possess her. Each probably in the thrall of some magical potion to help them lose their heads. It must have been fun. Like Pompey, Caesar held no grudge against his former wife’s former lover. Pompeia was beautiful, she was married to Caesar, and Clodius, like all men, enjoyed the momentary usurpation of another man’s power through his wife’s vaginal canal. No matter.
“I think Cato’s begun to annoy even Cicero,” Caesar said.
“For all their like thinking?”
“Cicero told me that he is weary of Cato pretending to be a citizen in Plato’s Republic and not a man in the real world.”
“So he will not balk and carry on when we rid ourselves of Cato?”
“I think not. Have you given the matter further thought, Brother?” Caesar asked.
Caesar appreciated Clodius’s gift for chicanery coupled with his willingness to exceed the boundaries of both law and taste, not to mention his spritish delight in mischief. It was Clodius who had arranged for the men to dump shit upon the head of Bibulus. But Bibulus was a fool and easily humiliated. Though Cato annoyed everyone, he was still revered.
“I have pondered it,” he said, tossing his curls about like a girl. Clodius was the kind of man who could act effeminate because he was so dangerous. It was one of the many traits the two men shared. “I cannot stop meditating on the king of Cyprus.”
“I thought we were meditating on Cato.” Clodius’s plots were woven like spider’s webs, in circuitous strokes, never linear, never direct.
“I despise the king of Cyprus. Did you know that?”
“Brother, it happened twenty years ago,” said Caesar. Clodius told the story every time he got drunk. He had been kidnapped by Cypriot pirates who demanded his ransom from the king of Cyprus. The king refused to pay, and Clodius was so humiliated that the pirates felt sorry for him and let him go.
“You should have done what I did in that situation,” said Caesar. When young and in the service of the king of Bithynia, Caesar, too, had been taken by pirates. “I promised that they would die for their crime and I lived up to my word.” For thirty-eight days, he amused himself with the pirates, demanding that they be quiet while he slept long hours, writing verse about them, and vowing to crucify them as soon as he was freed.
“You were sleeping with the king of Bithynia. You knew he would pay,” said Clodius. “I neglected to bugger old Ptolemy of Cyprus.”
The king did pay, and Caesar made good on his promise. He was such a gay and sanguine hostage that the pirates were amazed at his vengeance. They died stunned, mouths twisted in horror and irony, protesting as they were tied to the crosses that Caesar couldn’t possibly have arranged the executions because he was their friend.
But here was Clodius still seeking revenge. Caesar realized that his policy of never mixing procrastination and vengeance was a good one. He had not thought about the pirates in years. “Poor Clodius. You mustn’t carry these grudges. It gives way to a sour spleen.”
“I’ve procured a document from my old seafaring friends confessing that the king was their partner in piracy against the Republic. It’s all down in ink—shipments confiscated, duties withheld. Wonderful stuff and so well documented.”
“Congratulations.”
“I’ve already shown it around. Enough people—and our Cato is one of them—think it grounds not only for punishment, but for annexation of Cyprus. Obviously the king can’t be trusted, so he must be controlled. Of course, Cyprus comes with a large treasury.”
“Cyprus is an Egyptian territory. The king of Cyprus is brother, or half brother, to the king of Egypt,” Caesar replied.
“So what?”
“So you have managed to get support for the annexation of Cyprus. How does that serve us?”
“The king of Cyprus is rich, rich, rich. And he has beautiful things, darling, jewels, gorgeous plate of silver and gold, fabulous art. We’ll take it and display it in the Forum. The people will love it.”
“And Marcus Cato? What of him?”
“Who, I ask you, would make a better governor of Cyprus than Cato? I’ve already had it put i
nto his head that he is the only senator honest enough to inventory the king’s treasury without making himself rich.”
“I see.” Caesar had to admire Clodius. In his own way, he was a genius.
“Who would be more suited to lord over the old hedonist king than that prig, Cato? Oh, what I would give to see him preaching his tedious Republican morals, chastising the king for his excesses. Jumping between the king and his food, the king and his wine, the king and his lovers. The king will be out of his mind with Cato, but will be unable to do anything about it. We’ll have all the king’s money. And Cato will be many miles away, stuck on that lonely island for at least one year, until your consulship is finished and you’ve taken your post in Cisalpine Gaul.”
“It’s quite beautiful. Quite.”
“It occurred to me during my morning defecation. Tomorrow I shall devote myself to Cicero.”
Cicero was a more delicate issue. “I know you think this crazy, but I have an odd affection for the old man. I don’t want anything to happen to him just yet.”
“Brother, what could happen?” Clodius giggled. He hugged Caesar so tight he thought he would faint, looked into his face, winked, and turned on his heels. Gathering his cloak about him, he took himself from the room.
Caesar’s secretaries reappeared, and he turned his attention to the stack of correspondence Pompey had left for him to attend to. “No one can resist your letters,” Pompey had said sweetly. “Not even Cicero.” Caesar’s persuasive letters were an expedient means of doing business, cutting down as they did on unnecessary talk and travel.
“Read to me again the letter from the king of Egypt to Pompey,” Caesar said to the scribe who kept his correspondence.
To My Great Friend Gnaeus Pompeius,
I was very sorry to receive your correspondence from Judaea informing me that you hadn’t the troops available to send to my aid, particularly alter the army, supplies, and money I sent to support your efforts in Judaea. Again I appeal to our long-standing friendship. The unrest among my people grows. My family is confined to the palace. It is my friendship with my Roman benefactors that raises the ire of my people. Would it not be possible to send a legion to me to demonstrate to the many factions in the city of Alexandria that the king can rely on the support and protection of the great Roman Republic and on the personal support of Pompeius Magnus? I fear that if I do not demonstrate the sanction or Rome, I shall be forced to withdraw from my country, whereupon factions hostile to the Republic shall take command of the government and the army. As long as I live you have my loyalty and friendship. I await your reply.
Urgently yours, Auletes
“The poor fellow sounds desperate,” Caesar said thoughtfully. “I believe Pompey meant to help him. It’s the very least we can do, particularly since we will be taking Cyprus from him. I am sure he gets a pretty penny from the Cypriot coffers. Here, let us write to him and allay his fears. Say this:
My dear King Ptolemy,
I am in receipt or your letter to my colleague Pompey, who is currently on his honeymoon with my daughter, Julia, and is indisposed. I have considered your appeal. You shall have the protection you require from Rome. I shall make certain the senate officially recognizes you as friend and Ally of the Roman People—a title you have warranted for some time. This decree shall be announced throughout Rome and all her client kingdoms. However, you do understand that protection is a costly enterprise for which the Roman treasury must be compensated. Please send to me the amount of six thousand talents. If it is not possible to procure the amount straightaway, then I can arrange for you to borrow all or part of the sum from my great and trustworthy friend the banker Gaius Rabirius Postumus at a reasonable rate of interest. If this arrangement is convenient, I will have Rabirius deposit the money in our accounts immediately. He will draw up the appropriate papers, and all shall be satisfied until you are able to liquidate the necessary assets to repay the loan. I trust this is a satisfactory and expedient solution to your urgent concerns. I await your prompt response.
Yours, Gaius Julius Caesar
EIGHT
The king was a fool, all right, but he appeared to be a fool who had struck a peculiar negotiation with Fate, a fool who was protected by the gods simply because he was so foolish.
Meleager meditated upon this unfortunate fact as he received a much-needed massage from his body servant. The servant worked the muscles on the eunuch’s back while Meleager took deep, exasperated breaths and tried to let his frustrations melt away into the hands of the large man.
With the strange special protection Auletes must have arranged with the gods, he had escaped the turmoil and thoroughly enjoyed himself on his hunt. The bastard king had fled the city long enough to gorge himself upon wild antelope, returning fatter than ever, and to a more peaceful kingdom. When the Vizier informed the leaders of the local demes that Auletes had gone on a hunt, the elder spokesman said, “At least he is not feeding himself this week with the public coffers.”
Upon his return, the king had made a series of new blunders, so serious that Meleager believed the time had come to rid Egypt of his pitiable rule. Auletes had refused to come to the aid of his brother, the king of Cyprus, when the Romans annexed the territory and confiscated his treasury, despite letters from Cyprus begging for help.
“Your Majesty, the people do not understand why you do not intervene with Rome on behalf of your brother, King Ptolemy of Cyprus,” Meleager said. “Cyprus is an Egyptian territory. The stolen money is Egyptian property. Now Egypt will have to negotiate with the governor Cato for the timber we receive from Cyprus for our ships and for the copper for our coins. Rome bankrupts us step by step.”
“What can I do? I advised my brother to do what the Romans want him to do—abdicate and join the priesthood of Aphrodite at Paphos. Paphos is a lovely place and right there on the island of Cyprus, not some ugly rock in a black northern sea. In fact, the blind poet, Homer, believed that the goddess preferred Paphos to all other places,” the king said with mock enthusiasm. “It would hardly be an unpleasant retirement.”
As if his cowardice was not disgusting enough, now the king had given the extortionist Caesar six thousand talents—almost half of the country’s annual income.
“I must pay the money, or I will soon find myself in my brother’s position, with Cato standing at my palace door, making a list of my treasures to take away to Rome,” the king had said.
“I do not think the people will have much sympathy for Your Majesty’s position,” said Meleager.
“I have saved my country,” Auletes said. “Unlike her neighbors, Egypt is still free.” He dismissed Meleager with a tired wave of his royal hand.
Meleager discovered that Auletes had borrowed the money from a Roman money lender, Rabirius. To ensure that Rabirius would be repaid, the Roman senate ensconced a contingent of representatives—“officials”—in Alexandria. The sycophant king set these men up in lavish villas in the city and gifted them with large quantities of servants, gold plate, jewels, and statuary thieved from the old Egyptian temples. The Romans repaid the king by wandering the city drunk, abusing the Greek, Jewish, and Egyptian citizens alike in the name of “Mighty Rome,” and terrorizing Auletes’ court prostitutes with their savage sexual appetites.
Just when Meleager thought the king had forever alienated his subjects, Auletes soothed the people’s anger by declaring a general amnesty for all those awaiting prosecution. Since the courts in Alexandria, both Greek and Egyptian, were flooded with civil and criminal cases, he appeased many with this decision.
“I am wiping the slate clean for my people, who I know possess pure hearts,” the king exclaimed in his last public speech. “Go home! And thank the gods for your good fortune!”
They didn’t thank the gods. They thanked the king. They forgave the king everything—even the matter of the higher taxes they paid to satisfy the king’s creditors—and went about their daily business, thereby nullifying, at least temporarily, all the wor
k of the eunuch, the Vizier, and the General. He should have let the mob murder Auletes last year at the Grand Procession. Now what? Was the king so popular that next year, when Berenike turned eighteen, it would be a chore to bring him down?
The people of Alexandria had no love for Auletes, but they were easily bought. And the king was the kind of man who knew how to purchase affection. Was that simply human nature? wondered the eunuch. Is man’s integrity inevitably palliated when his own selfish interests are indulged?
The eunuch turned over so that the servant could massage his feet. It had been a long day. He sighed, releasing himself to the pressure of the masseur’s hands upon his well-oiled soles.
What to do? Meleager was not a man who took risks unless he was under the direction of the deities. Perhaps in the morning he would go to the temple and make a sacrifice to the Mother Goddess in an appeal for her guidance. Give me a sign, Great Mother, he prayed silently. Speak your will unto me and it shall be done.
Two girls, one tall and the color of polished mahogany, and the other small and peanut brown, stared at their reflections in the mirror. They had chosen the djellaba, the loose, drab dress of the Egyptian peasant, as their disguise of the day, and had selected the most unattractive ones that Kleopatra had hidden in her trunk. Kleopatra grimaced. With her androgynous child’s body, she looked like a common camel boy, whereas Mohama looked like an African goddess. With an envy that was not entirely chaste, she had stared at Mohama’s jutting brown breasts before they were covered by the djellaba, wondering if her own little chest would ever own such imposing twins.
Mohama tied colorful scarves around their heads in the style of the desert people, and replaced Kleopatra’s fine leather shoes with the thatched, reedy sandals worn by the palace workers. She lifted up Kleopatra’s skirt and strapped a sheathed dagger onto her thin, childish thigh. She armed herself with two weapons, one tucked inside an underarm sling for easy reach, and the other in a sheath buckled to her more well-developed and muscled loin.